


A Widow's Bite

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Brotherhood, Dragon Riders, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Aramis, Worried brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: When Aramis is poisoned by a trap meant for Athos, it becomes a race against time to find a rare cure that’s just as treacherous to obtain.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 29
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

The clash of steel pealed throughout the garrison yard as d'Artagnan pressed his attack on Athos. He thought he was finally driving the musketeer back, but Athos's parries weren't strenuous and his expression was almost…bored. Then the musketeer smoothly sidestepped him and d'Artagnan couldn't twist in time to stop Athos's blade from lightly thwacking the back of his shoulder blades. D'Artagnan dropped his shoulders with a sigh.

"You go in too hard and fast," Athos critiqued. "When you should be holding back in favor of precision."

D'Artagnan gave his rapier a frustrated swish through the air. So Athos had been telling him—repeatedly.

Off to the side, Aramis, Porthos, and the musketeers' three dragons were watching the sparring with apparent amusement. Some days d'Artagnan felt they were truly taking an interest in helping him grow as a soldier, and other days it felt like they were keeping him around mostly for entertainment. The dichotomy was oddly comforting though—it gave d'Artagnan a sense of, well, family.

If only he wasn't the "pup" of the bunch, as Porthos had taken to calling him.

D'Artagnan turned to face Athos again, ready to go another round, but they were interrupted by one of the stable boys walking over, a small wooden box in his hands.

"Someone left this for Athos," he said.

Athos lowered his sword. "Who?"

"It was a woman. She didn't give her name."

"A woman?" Aramis repeated, rounding the table to take the box. "Athos, have you found a mistress you've been keeping from us?"

Athos shot him a bland look.

"A secret admirer, then," Aramis theorized as he examined the box with interest. From where d'Artagnan stood, he could see it looked hand painted with ornate etchings around the rim. Aramis paused and scrunched his brows at the swordsman. "Strange choice though."

"Enough," Athos said with the barest hint of annoyance and gestured to d'Artagnan with his rapier to resume their practicing.

"Don't you want to see what's in the box?" d'Artagnan asked.

"No."

"Well, I do," Aramis said. He lifted the latch and opened the lid, then let out an abrupt yelp and dropped it.

D'Artagnan frowned at him in confusion, but then movement under the table drew his attention and Porthos jumped up from the bench he was sitting at with a shout.

"Whoa!"

Something the size of a large hand skittered out into the open—a black scorpion with red markings on its back.

The dragons reared up with a series of hisses at the creature. D'Artagnan scrambled back as it darted his way, but then Athos swooped in and stabbed the point of his sword straight through the scorpion's middle, pinning it to the ground. It jerked in response, writhing in place and flailing its stinger back and forth. Athos left his sword impaled in the dirt and whirled toward Aramis, who was hunched over and clutching his hand to his chest.

Porthos rushed over and grabbed his arm. "Did it sting ya?"

Aramis nodded stiffly and carefully extended his hand, revealing a hideous puncture wound in the meaty juncture of his thumb and forefinger. The flesh was already puffy and purple and Aramis's breaths were coming in and out harshly.

"Etienne!" Athos shouted across the yard. "Get the royal physician, now!"

The other musketeer that'd been passing by didn't bother asking why and immediately ran off. Athos and Porthos hemmed Aramis in and began ushering him toward the infirmary. D'Artagnan cast a wary look at the still twitching scorpion before hurrying to follow.

"How bad is it?" he asked as he sheathed his sword.

Aramis was bent double in obvious pain and didn't answer.

Porthos guided him to sit on one of the infirmary beds. "I don't know. I've never seen a thing like that before. Athos?"

"Nor I."

D'Artagnan flicked a worried look at the swordsman. That box had been meant for him.

The lines of Athos's face were grim as he stared at Aramis struggling to contain his grunts of pain. "I'll inform the captain," he said and swept out of the infirmary.

Porthos grimaced at his retreating back but softened his expression at Aramis. "Let's get yer belt off."

He moved his fingers to undo the buckle and remove the weapons. He then untied Aramis's blue sash and helped him out of his doublet. Aramis hissed air through his teeth as the sleeve brushed over his hand. He was sweating profusely now, his pallor ashen.

"What should we do?" Porthos asked desperately.

Aramis just shook his head. D'Artagnan didn't know if that meant the Musketeers' field medic didn't know himself…or there wasn't anything they could do.

Several minutes later, Athos returned with Captain Treville, and all four of them stood around helplessly while they waited for the physician.

The man who finally arrived with Etienne wore a black frock and carried a leather satchel.

"Doctor Lemay," Treville greeted.

"Your musketeer was unable to tell me what ailment I am needed for," the physician replied, casting his gaze over them curiously.

"Aramis was stung by a scorpion," Athos supplied.

"A scorpion? Those aren't typical for this region."

"It looks like a targeted attack," Athos said tightly.

Doctor Lemay moved forward to take a look at his patient, the others stepping back to give him room. His mouth immediately turned down at the state of the marksman's hand. "Do you have the specimen?" he asked Treville.

"Outside."

The physician turned and quickly followed the captain out to get a look, leaving the others in suspended silence save for Aramis's strained breathing. When they returned, the doctor's face was carefully businesslike.

"Well?" Porthos demanded.

"Venom is tricky," Lemay hedged, making his way toward Aramis. "I will attempt to bleed some of it from your arm, but I must be honest and say I can't guarantee its effectiveness."

Aramis's jaw ticked but he attempted to roll up of his sleeve. Porthos quickly moved in to do it for him, then helped him lie back on the bed. Doctor Lemay opened his satchel and pulled out a scalpel and metal bowl.

D'Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest and watched squeamishly as the physician extended Aramis's arm out from the bed and made a long cut across the width of his forearm between his wrist and elbow. It wasn't the sight of blood that didn't sit well with d'Artagnan, but the methodical way in which the doctor wielded the scalpel and how Aramis simply tensed up and bore it with a clenched jaw.

Lemay held the bowl under Aramis's arm to catch the drainage with one hand and used his other to inspect the wound from the stinger. "I can make a poultice for the swelling."

"Will that be enough?" Athos asked.

"Again, I can't say for sure. I'll have to consult my books, see if there's anything about this particular kind of venom."

D'Artagnan pressed his lips into a thin line, not feeling all that comforted by the doctor's lack of prognosis. He didn't know much about scorpions, but he'd seen an adder kill a man and knew venom was not a trifle injury.

"If the venom doesn't kill me, the blood loss might," Aramis finally gritted out.

D'Artagnan had to admit there was quite a bit gathering in the bowl.

Lemay tsked him but nevertheless reached for a towel and pressed it over the wound to staunch the flow. He beckoned Porthos over. "Hold this. I'm going to make the poultice."

Porthos took the doctor's place applying pressure to the cut while Lemay went to one of the infirmary shelves and began pulling items off. D'Artagnan watched helplessly, hating his inability to do anything. By the looks on Athos's and the captain's faces, he imagined they were feeling the same.

When Lemay had wrapped Aramis's hand in the poultice and linen and bandaged his forearm as well, he stepped back with a sigh. "I'm afraid that's all I can do at this time. I will return to the palace and consult the library on this creature. Hopefully I will find a treatment."

"Thank you," Captain Treville said, and the physician left.

"This is my fault," Athos spoke up once he was gone.

"It isn't," Aramis protested with a wheeze.

"That box was left for me," Athos argued. "It should be me lying there."

Aramis let out a pained scoff. "Perhaps we should talk about how this is the second time someone's targeted you, and in a rather elaborate way, for that matter."

D'Artagnan frowned. It was true; his first meeting with the musketeer was because the man had been framed for highway robbery and murder. And now someone had sent Athos a venomous scorpion? Someone either really had a grudge or too much of a flare for dramatics.

"We will be talking about that," Treville interrupted. "But right now we're going to focus on this immediate situation."

"Not much you can do," Aramis pointed out ruefully, then bit back an agonized groan.

The captain ignored the comment. "Athos." Cocking his head, Treville made his way toward the door, Athos following.

D'Artagnan hesitated for a moment before trailing after them. He needed to be doing something, needed to help find out who had done this and bring them to justice.

Athos walked over to where the ornate box was lying in the dirt and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, then set it on the table. "There's nothing in it."

"Aside from the scorpion," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"No note?" Treville asked. "No clue as to who sent it?"

"None."

Athos's gaze shifted to where the scorpion was still skewered to the ground with his sword. It seemed mostly dead, though d'Artagnan saw one of its spindly legs give a twitch and he suppressed an unnerved shudder.

"Savron," Athos called.

The dragons had given the pinned creature a wide berth but Athos's silverback walked closer at his rider's command. Athos wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and paused, giving his dragon a meaningful look. Savron's belly began to glow with fulvous veins. Athos yanked his blade out of the scorpion and Savron belched a short stream of fire out to envelope it, burning it to a crisp.

D'Artagnan hoped it wouldn't keep twitching after that. And he hoped things weren't as dire as they appeared to be…

.o.0.o.

Milady lingered between some merchant stalls outside the garrison wall, pretending to browse. She had the hood of her velvet cloak pulled up over her head to conceal her face and the fact that she had an ear turned to the news that was beginning to spread like wild fire—a musketeer had been poisoned.

The shocked murmurs rippled from peasant to peasant in the wake of the stable boy's urgent gossip.

It was a ghastly creature, some kind of demon spawn.

The royal physician had been called.

Milady waited with bated breath for the name she yearned to hear.

Aramis.

She froze in dismay. Aramis, not Athos. How could that bumbling oaf of a stable boy have given the box to the _wrong_ musketeer? Her fingers clenched around a clay bottle with almost enough force to break it.

She quickly took a breath to calm herself. No, this would work out fine. Athos may not suffer this day as she'd intended, but him having to watch someone he cared about die slowly and in absolute agony would be just as tortuous. Milady could always find another way to end him later.

Smirking in satisfaction despite the unforeseen turn of events, she set the ware back on the cart and slipped away down the street.

.o.0.o.

Athos stood at the foot of the infirmary bed, watching Aramis twitch and moan in the throes of fever, which had set in not even an hour after he'd been stung. He was in pain, too, they could tell, but he'd refused to take the laudanum they had on hand, wanting to be lucid when Doctor Lemay returned.

Porthos sat in a chair by his side and dabbed a wet cloth over his brow, but that only seemed to cause him more discomfort as he kept twisting away with pained whimpers. D'Artagnan paced the length of the infirmary along the shelves and cupboards opposite the line of beds.

It was two hours before Doctor Lemay returned, entering the infirmary with the captain.

Porthos leaned over Aramis and prodded his shoulder gently. "Aramis, the doc's back."

Aramis shuddered but prized his eyelids open and rolled glassy eyes toward them.

"How is he?" Lemay asked.

"Fever set in. An' he won't take somethin' fer the pain," Porthos replied.

Lemay pursed his lips. "The venom has likely increased the sensitivity of pain receptors. Laudanum may be less effective because of it."

"What about somethin' stronger?"

"Actually, I was going to offer…" He broke off and started over. "I've identified the creature," he announced, though his tone was grave. "It is a rare and very deadly scorpion from Africa, known as the widow-maker."

Athos tensed.

"But you said if you could identify it, then you could identify the medicine, yeah?" Porthos said.

Lemay's expression pinched with regret. "There is no anti-venom. And the creature's sting is always fatal."

Athos felt like all the air got sucked out of his lungs and the room. Only years of tightly controlled composure kept him from swaying where he stood.

Lemay strode across the room to Aramis and bent over to pick up his arm. He unwound the bandage and removed the poultice, and an earth-shattering hush descended over the room. Red streaks were branching out from the wound and up Aramis's arm in a root-like lattice that was burrowing ever deeper.

Aramis turned his head away from the sight. "How long?" he asked hoarsely.

Lemay laid his arm back on the mattress. "A day, give or take." He hesitated. "The accounts of the deaths are…unpleasant. Which brings me back to…" Lemay faltered but then drew his shoulders back. "At this point all I can offer is to make the passing easier."

"What?" Porthos blurted.

"You can't be serious," d'Artagnan exclaimed.

Even Athos found the suggestion a dishonorable affront. But looking at Aramis's waxen pallor, face pinched in growing agony and unshed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, how could he demand his brother endure such a gruesome death? Athos would rather it be him. It should have been him.

"There might be something that can help," Treville interjected tentatively.

All eyes snapped to him.

"In my early years campaigning, I visited a village in northeast France where a medicine woman used a special flower to treat a ghastly infection that should have killed the soldier afflicted. Instead he was healed the very next day."

"You mean witchcraft," Lemay said disapprovingly.

"She was not a witch, though she did admit the flower could cure any ill, like magic. The people in the foothills of the Jura called it the elixir of heaven."

"I have not heard of this miraculous cure before," Lemay went on doubtfully.

Even Athos was skeptical; surely something like that would be well-sought after.

Treville's shoulders dropped a fraction. "It only grows high in the Jura, in one of the mountain valleys, according to the medicine woman. Not many dare its wild terrain to retrieve it."

Because wild dragons of immense size and ferocity roamed the Jura mountain range.

"I'll go," Athos immediately said.

Porthos surged to his feet. "Me too."

D'Artagnan stepped closer and gave a staunch nod in clear indication of solidarity.

"Well," Lemay said, looking slightly ruffled. "All I can say then is Godspeed."

They would need it. By dragon flight, it would take them six to eight hours to reach the Jura from Paris. Lemay had said Aramis only had a day or so, and they had already spent several hours standing around.

As the others filed out of the infirmary to hurriedly prepare for the journey, Athos stole a moment with Aramis alone, kneeling down beside the bed and placing a hand over his brother's racing heart.

"Wait for us," he urged.

Aramis weakly lifted his uninjured hand to cover Athos's and managed a small nod.

Athos drew in a fortifying breath, and then forced himself to pull away and stride out of the infirmary.

Outside, he found d'Artagnan already saddling Savron for him with deft efficiency. He must have been getting in some practice at Bonacieux's. Porthos was loading saddlebags onto Vrita's back. Closer to the infirmary, Rhaego fidgeted restlessly, casting uncertain glances between the building and his companions as though he didn't know what to do without his rider. Athos didn't even bother suggesting d'Artagnan try riding him—and neither did the young Gascon. Their task was too urgent to afford wasting precious time dealing with the unruly dragon.

Treville came out from the armory with three acimite swords and altitude cloaks and handed them out. "The plant is a white, star-shaped flower. Other than that, my memory can't serve."

Athos nodded as he traded his rapier for the special blade that would offer better defense against wild dragons. Throwing the thick riding cloak over his shoulders, he swung up onto Savron's back and clipped on his anchor line.

Porthos and d'Artagnan climbed onto Vrita.

"Be careful," Treville warned. "And Godspeed."

Without further ado, the two dragons leaped into the air with a flap of their wings. Rhaego watched them go but didn't follow, to Athos's relief. As the garrison grew smaller and receded from view, he silently bid their brother to hang on until they returned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Whether you celebrate or not, may your day be merry. I didn't get a chance to write a Christmasy fic this year, but LadyWallace was sweet enough to write me a Musketeers fic for Christmas with cold!hurt!Aramis and protective!brothers, which I recommend for everyone to check out for some Christmas h/c: "In the Bleak MidWinter."

Porthos's stomach was a coiled knot as they flew east. He'd never had to travel out to the Jura but he knew it was a couple weeks by horse. Flying by dragon was expeditious in comparison, but it would still take them several hours. Time he was afraid they didn't have.

He and Athos had already conferred about whether they should make any stops along the way, but their dragons had given resolute head shakes in response; they knew the stakes and were willing to push themselves to reach the mountains as soon as possible.

Behind him in the saddle, d'Artagnan kept trying to examine the sword Treville had given him, tugging it a few inches from its sheath while in mid-flight and bumping Porthos's back.

"You gonna squirm the whole way?" Porthos snapped testily.

"Sorry," the boy immediately apologized. "I've never seen a sword like this before."

Porthos huffed. "Acimite," he said more amicably. "Only alloy strong enough ta pierce a dragon's hide. But they also fracture from the force, so they aren't for everyday use, only when we know we might go up against a dragon."

"So…if I end up having to stab a dragon with it, it'll break?"

Porthos shrugged. "Could. So that blow better count."

"Have you ever had to…you know…" d'Artagnan started, trying to lower his voice but still be heard over the wind currents. "Kill a dragon?"

"I've fought a few," he replied. "Haven't killed any personally. This scar here…" He twisted around and pointed to the mark across his eye. "Dragon claw. Damn thing could've cloven my skull in two if I hadn't tripped a split second before it came at me. Still nearly lost my eye. That was before I joined the Musketeers."

"How'd you escape?"

Porthos reached under his cloak to pull out one of the weapons he carried—a fossilized dragon claw the size of a fifteen-inch curved dagger. "Found this one day after one of my first battles when I was helpin' to dig the graves for the fallen soldiers. One thing that works against a dragon as well as acimite is another dragon. Or in this case, a piece o' one. I took a chunk outta that beast like it did me."

And then the cavalry had arrived in the form of the Musketeers and their dragon riders, and the Huguenot rebellion with their attack dragon were finally quashed. Porthos had thought dragons were nothing more than vicious animals sometimes kept on leashes—or unleashed—but his time spent in the camp after getting stitched up had given him another perspective. When Captain Treville had, out of the blue, invited him to join their ranks, Porthos had eagerly accepted. And when he'd achieved the level of dragon rider…well, that had been a day.

So he could understand how easily d'Artagnan had become fascinated with the elite regiment himself.

The hours and miles rolled by, and Porthos gradually bent further over Vrita's neck, the cold winds buffeting him with relentless intensity. His gloves and heavy cloak helped to shield the bulk of him, but this was another reason dragon riders didn't attempt such long stretches without landing for a rest. He wouldn't suggest it though; Aramis was dying and he could endure a bit of cold discomfort if it meant saving his brother.

D'Artagnan clung to his back, having grown silent long ago. At least Porthos's girth was serving as a buffer to the lad's smaller stature.

Athos and Savron flew ahead, steadfast on their course. Porthos knew Athos was brooding and blaming himself. Someone had tried to kill him and caught Aramis by mistake. And that was another worry, though one Porthos couldn't devote any energy to at the moment: someone out there wanted Athos dead. And Porthos did not take kindly to that.

It was getting late into the evening when the peaks of the Jura finally came into view, some sharp crags and others blunt knolls on top of steep pedestals of granite that dipped into high mountain valleys between ridges. Even though it was spring, the very tops of the range were still blanketed in snow. Porthos suddenly had the dreaded thought that the flower didn't even grow in such conditions, that they were a season too early to find any viable for harvesting.

But that didn't stop Athos from veering Savron down toward one of the elevated valleys and landing. Porthos and Vrita followed suit, touching down in a field of frost. There was precious little daylight left and such a wide area to search.

Porthos unhooked his anchor line and slid out of the saddle, his joints locked after so long riding. Beside him, d'Artagnan nearly collapsed in the snow when he dismounted, unable to straighten his legs. Vrita's head hung low in exhaustion, as did Savron's. They would not be able to make the return journey for at least a few hours. Hopefully that was enough time to find the flower and for all of them to take a little rest.

"We'll split up," Athos said. "Stay within shouting range."

Porthos forced himself to walk off his stiffness, heading across the barren field toward the tree line where he could see patches of green between thinner sheets of snow. He wondered how difficult it would be to spot the special flower among a scenery of shared white.

A sharp crack sounded behind him and he twisted back around in alarm, searching the mountains on the other side of the valley for a wild dragon as the source. But the noise came again much closer—and below.

A spider web fracture split across the ground beneath Vrita, and Porthos realized the crunch of snow they'd landed on was only a thin covering over a frozen lake. A lake beginning to thaw with the coming of spring.

Before he could react, the ice cracked again and gave way, plunging Vrita into the freezing water. She screeched and scrabbled at the edge with her claws, more chunks of ice breaking off with each frenzied grab for purchase. Her wings flapped frantically, but the tips were already submerged, inhibiting her ability to pull herself up by flight alone, and after the seven-hour journey they'd just made, she no longer had the strength to fight the pull of the lake.

"Vrita!" Porthos started forward, only to stop when he felt the ice beneath him shift in response. He watched helplessly as she sank further into the sloshing water, another terrified shriek belting across the valley.

"Porthos!" Athos shouted, and he looked over in time to see Athos throw him a line of rope.

Porthos caught the end and quickly fashioned it into a large loop. Praying the ground beneath him didn't also give way, he swung the lasso above his head and then tossed it around Vrita's neck.

Athos tied the other end of the rope to the pommels of Savron's saddle and hopped back onto the silverback, who then immediately launched back into the air. Savron thwacked his wings with urgent, heavy bursts, trying to help pull Vrita from the water.

The ice beneath Porthos shifted again and he reluctantly scrambled back a few steps. D'Artagnan was a few yards away, looking frozen in place as though not wanting to make things worse but not wanting to leave.

Vrita continued to claw at the jagged ice, breaking off more and more pieces as she slowly carved a trough toward shore. Porthos moved backward, watching his step while keeping his attention on his dragon.

"Come on, keep goin'," he urged.

Her breaths were wheezing and movements growing less frantic as the cold took hold. Porthos's heart dropped into his stomach.

But then his boot stepped onto the uneven surface of earth and rock and he held his ground. When Vrita was within reach, he stretched his arm out to snag one of the straps of her waterlogged saddle and pulled with all his might. D'Artagnan darted in and grabbed the other side to add his strength while Savron strained against Vrita's flagging weight.

Together, they finally hauled her out of the lake and onto solid ground where she collapsed, shivering violently, her tail still dipped in the water.

Savron landed with a thud and Athos jumped down.

"D'Artagnan, we need wood for a fire," Athos said urgently.

The two of them darted toward the tree line while Porthos crouched in front of Vrita.

"No, no, you need to get up. Come on." He pushed his shoulder into hers to nudge her into standing. She puffed out a wheezy breath, limbs shaking as she struggled to rise. Porthos slipped an arm under her neck and heaved.

Savron came around Vrita's other side and pushed against her in an effort to help.

"Come on, girl," Porthos coaxed.

She stumbled to her feet and gave herself a sharp shake, splattering them with water droplets. A hoarse cough vibrated in her throat, followed by another.

Porthos ducked under her foreleg and rubbed her belly. "That's it, you can do it."

Her torso thrummed with shivers and the shuddering attempts to kindle the fire in her gut. Porthos kept up a steady stream of encouraging words until he felt the scales beneath his palm begin to warm. A subtle glow began to suffuse through her belly, though it was far from a dragon's typical intensity.

"You're doin' good."

Porthos and Savron braced her as they shuffled their way toward the trees where Athos and d'Artagnan were tossing sticks and branches into a pile. Athos then waved Savron over and gestured for d'Artagnan to back up. The silverback opened his maw and belched out a stream of fire that engulfed the wood and lit it up into a raging bonfire.

Porthos finally tugged the rope off Vrita's neck and undid the straps of the saddle. He pulled the wet tack off her back and dumped it on the ground as she curled up in front of the flames.

"Is she gonna be okay?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"She's a tough old girl," Porthos automatically replied, though his chest tightened with his own concern.

"She needs fuel," Athos put in. "Which bag did you pack the provisions in?"

Porthos grimaced. "Mine."

Athos went over to the waterlogged saddlebags and pulled out some strips of cured rabbit meat that were sodden from the dip in the lake. He peeled apart three chunks and tossed them on the ground in front of Vrita, then went to feed some of the rest to Savron.

Porthos nudged the meat with his boot toward Vrita's snout. "Come on, I know it's not very appetizin', but ya need to replenish yer strength."

Vrita shakily turned toward the food and snaked her tongue over it before pulling a strip into her mouth to chew.

Porthos nearly sagged from exhaustion and the cold. His outer leathers were damp and he was beginning to shiver himself. A look at the sky revealed the deepening tones of twilight were already stretching across the valley, devouring the rest of their daylight.

"I'll take a look around," d'Artagnan spoke up. "Maybe some of the flower is growing nearby."

"Don't go far," Athos warned. "It'll be dark soon."

The boy gave a grim nod and headed off into the woods.

Vrita lolled her head up at Porthos and let out a low keen.

"It's not yer fault," he said, sinking to the ground beside her and resting a hand on the side of her neck. It'd been a long shot to begin with that they'd even find the flower before dark. Now they would have to wait until morning to do a thorough search. At least that should also give Vrita the chance to recover from her icy plunge for the return journey.

But Porthos was afraid that time for them was time Aramis didn't have.

.o.0.o.

Aramis shuddered and jerked on the infirmary bed as micro spasms wracked his body. His hand burned like it'd been bathed in acid, a sensation that was creeping up his arm with the inflamed streaks as they branched higher, now past the bandage and around his elbow. Random pulses of sharp pain assaulted him elsewhere in regular intervals, and he was hot and cold by turns.

With the others gone, he'd finally consented to taking some laudanum, but it had done little to ease the pain. Doctor Lemay had offered opium instead, but Aramis had refused. While oblivion was a temptingly blissful prospect at this point, he had promised to stay strong and wait for his brothers to return, and dulling his mind along with the agony carried too great a risk that he would lose himself and slip away.

But he was in _agony_.

Every stuttered breath sent stabs of pain down his spine and he could find no position to alleviate the discomfort. Not that he had any strength left to even roll onto his side. The venom was doing a thorough job of incapacitating him, while its double-edged sword increased every nerve ending's ability to feel pain tenfold.

He heard the door creak open but couldn't muster the wherewithal to turn his head and see who it was. Doctor Lemay was puttering around somewhere in the infirmary, and the captain had been in to see him a few times to ask for a status report. Their voices had dropped lower and lower each time. As if they needed to conceal the truth from Aramis; he was starkly aware of how _bad_ it was.

"Aramis?" a tentative voice called softly.

He prized his eyelids open in surprise. "Constance," he breathed with a rasp. "What're you doing here- this late?"

The sun had set not long ago and the goings-on of the garrison had petered out for the night.

Constance shifted awkwardly. "D'Artagnan hadn't made it home for supper. I thought I'd come see if you lot hadn't gotten him into some kind of trouble. Pierre told me what happened." She flicked worried eyes over him. "Is there anything I can do?"

Aramis shook his head, wincing at the pain it caused.

She lingered though. "I could sit with you for a bit."

"That's not necessary," he protested with a wheeze.

"Actually," Lemay spoke up. "I have more books I'd like to consult back at the palace, and if you wouldn't mind staying…"

"Of course," Constance immediately said.

"Thank you. Send for me if his condition worsens."

Aramis didn't think it could get much worse, though as a medic he knew pragmatically that it could—and would.

Constance took a seat in the chair by his bed as Lemay left and picked up the wet cloth in the bowl of water on the floor.

"You really don't have to stay," Aramis murmured. "There's nothing Doctor Lemay can do anyway."

"Shush." She wiped the cool cloth across his burning brow, which at the moment felt soothing but Aramis knew it would feel like ice picks in a few moments. "The others have gone to retrieve a cure, yes?"

"They will try."

And if anyone could succeed, it was them. Aramis was trying to hold onto that faith in the face of his torment.

"You like d'Artagnan," he said out of the blue in an effort to distract himself.

Constance froze for a split moment, then gave a casual shrug. "He's a nice enough boarder."

"And you would go looking for all your lodgers if they were late arriving home?" he teased.

"Like I said, I was simply concerned about him hanging out with the lot of you, since you're constantly getting into trouble. Case in point."

Aramis choked on a garbled laugh, which triggered a spasm in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit back a moan. He would not let Constance see how much pain he was in.

"Aramis? I'm sorry!"

"I'm fine," he managed to get out breathlessly, focusing on inhaling and exhaling through his nose sharply as he rode out the wave.

"Stop trying to be tough," she chided. "It's just me here."

He almost laughed again. "You shouldn't have to see this."

He felt her shift and opened his eyes to see her leaning close. "It's just me, Aramis."

The earnest empathy in her eyes broke the dam he'd so strenuously erected. He and Constance had a close relationship; they'd worked together in the early months of training Rhaego when everyone else had wanted to give up on the dragon. She was like a sister to Aramis, someone he knew would always be bluntly honest with him but never cruel, supportive and compassionate.

"I'm afraid to die," he confessed, hot tears finally leaking out the corners of his eyes. Not because he feared what was in the next life—his faith in God assured him of a place in heaven—but because he wasn't ready to give up this one. "I'm afraid of what I'll leave behind."

Constance put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You are not going to die. You're too stubborn for that. And Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan will find this cure and be back before you know it."

"If they don't," he pressed, chest hitching. "Promise me you won't let anything happen to Rhaego. I know he's a handful but he's a good dragon. Maybe…maybe d'Artagnan can get through to him. He should be allowed…to try." His muscles clenched under another wave of spasms.

"Shh, don't talk like that."

"Promise," he begged.

Constance's eyes glistened and she nodded sagely. "I promise."

She picked up the towel and wet it again, then returned to mopping Aramis's brow as he shuddered and writhed in agony.


	3. Chapter 3

Constance had stayed in the Musketeer infirmary to tend Aramis all through the night, trying to cool his rising fever and get him to drink water between pained attacks that left him choking on strangled cries. But none of it seemed to help, and the longer the night wore on, the less lucid he became until all he could do was lie in the bed, moaning in some state suspended between sleep and wakefulness. Not even there did it seem he could find respite from the agony the venom inflicted upon him.

A few times some other musketeer had come in and offered to relieve her so she could go home. She'd politely declined, though she had asked Pierre to send word to her father where she was. Constance didn't have any brothers, but there were several within the Musketeers whom she felt that kind of fondness for, Aramis being one of them. She would not leave his side until this situation resolved itself—one way or the other.

A disturbance outside shattered the stillness of the morning, raised voices and what sounded like low growls. Frowning, Constance stood and quickly went to see what was happening, wondering if Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan could have made it back already.

What she found when she opened the doors, however, was a group of musketeers facing off with Rhaego, who had his fangs bared at the men and was snapping menacingly at the air between them.

"What is going on?" she demanded.

"He's been gnawing on one of the support posts," Cornet replied. "Etienne tried to get him to stop and he got aggressive."

Constance glanced over the beams that supported the second floor balcony above, easily spotting the one with jagged teeth marks and starbursts of splinters. The structure didn't look badly compromised—yet—but it soon would be if the dragon kept it up, not to mention he could easily cut his mouth on that splintered wood.

Constance looked back and noticed the men had some ropes in hand that they looked ready to use to drag Rhaego back to his den. The dragon rumbled low in his throat and snapped at the air again.

"Rhaego, you need to calm down," Constance said.

He whipped his head around and snapped at her, inches from her face.

She slapped his cheek with the back of her hand. "Stop it! What would Aramis say if he saw you right now?"

The dragon clamped his jaw shut and hunched his head, slightly cowed, but still glowered at her in disgruntlement.

"I know you're worried about Aramis, we all are. But this is not helping."

Rhaego shifted his weight, flicking hostile looks back at the musketeers.

Constance waved at them to leave this to her. Cornet looked reluctant but nodded to the others and they slowly began to retreat.

Rhaego lowered his head in decreased tension as they gave him space.

"And what were you thinking, chewing up the post like that?" Constance went on. "You want to bring down the building on me and Aramis?"

The dragon ducked his head, looking properly chastised now.

Constance moved forward and took his snout in her hands. "We just have to have faith that the others will return with that cure," she said more softly. "And in the meantime, Aramis needs you to be the dragon he knows you can be."

Rhaego let out a low keen and nudged her chest, almost pushing her back a step.

"You can't fit inside," she said regretfully. "But if I open the doors and let you look, will you promise to then stand watch for the others' return and _not_ chew things up or snap at people?"

His jaw worked but he eventually bobbed his head in agreement.

Constance stepped back and pulled the infirmary doors open as wide as they could go. Aramis was lying halfway down the row of beds, still unaware of what was going on around him.

Rhaego mewled and scuffled forward a step but then pulled himself back.

"I'll leave the doors open for a few minutes," Constance said sympathetically. Couldn't hurt Aramis's fever, in any case. "But it's cold and I'll have to shut them soon. When I do, you will behave, right?"

Rhaego lowered his head to her level in submission and stayed put when she went back inside.

Constance prayed Aramis would continue to hold on, and that his friends would return soon with that cure. Because losing him would be devastating on many levels.

.o.0.o.

Morning dawned cold high in the Jura. A thin layer of hoarfrost had formed over the broken section of the lake and glistered like crystals in the golden rays of the sun. D'Artagnan peeled himself from his bedroll, shuddering at the loss of warmth, but urgency gave him the fuel to move. They had to find that flower and set back for Paris with all haste.

The fire was still burning, having been stoked throughout the night by Savron. The silverback dragon was nowhere in sight at the moment and d'Artagnan twisted around in search of him.

"He's gone to hunt," Athos said from where he was packing up their bags. "He and Vrita need more energy before we can make the return journey."

Oh, right. D'Artagnan glanced at the green dragon, still curled up near the fire dozing. She looked well enough, and Porthos was no longer sticking close but packing up the rest of their bags as well. D'Artagnan rolled up his bedroll and strapped it to the back of one of the saddles.

Athos pulled out some bread and cold cheese and passed it around for them to eat quickly. "We'll stick to the woods in our search," he said. "There's more flora growing under the shelter of the canopy."

"Not to mention we don' need someone else fallin' through some ice," Porthos muttered.

Savron returned, a mountain goat clutched in his talons. He dropped it on the ground near Vrita, who woke at the disturbance.

"Savron," Athos called before the dragon could start tearing into its breakfast. He carried the saddle over and strapped it on. "We'll need to leave as quickly as possible once we find the flower."

The dragon waited patiently while the belts were cinched, and Porthos put Vrita's on her. Then the musketeers left the dragons to their meal as they ventured further into the woods in search of their only hope to save Aramis.

They split up from each other to cover more ground. D'Artagnan moved quickly among the trees, scanning the forest bed for that telltale star-shaped flower Captain Treville had described, or any white flower for that matter. So far he wasn't finding anything. What if the plant didn't grow during the winter? What if it took them too long to find it? Aramis didn't have much time left.

What if they were already too late?

D'Artagnan gave himself a sharp shake. No, he couldn't let himself think like that. But the memory of being too late to save his father kept intruding upon his thoughts. He hadn't known Aramis long, but he felt as though these three musketeers had become his closest friends, and he didn't want to lose any of them.

D'Artagnan reached the edge of the woodland, the terrain morphing into a rocky slope in the shadow of one of the peaks. He was about to turn back when he spotted a patch of green poking out between the chunks of shale, dotted with white.

It could have just been snow, but he had to make sure. He picked his way over the rocks to the flora and paused momentarily in sheer disbelief and relief—he'd found it.

"Athos! Porthos! Over here!" he shouted, then drew his parrying dagger and crouched down to start cutting through the stems. He didn't know how much they needed, but given its miraculous healing capabilities, he figured they should take as much as they could get.

He stuffed a handful into the pouch on his belt and started to cut off another chunk when he felt a subtle vibration reverberate through the ground. Something rumbled from above and d'Artagnan looked up. Ten feet up was a cleft in the mountainside he hadn't noticed. The ground shook again, followed by a gust of steam issuing from what now seemed to be the mouth of a cave. A humongous clawed foot grasped the edge of the escarpment, and then a massive snout extended out from the rocks. D'Artagnan stared dumbfounded at the largest dragon he had ever laid eyes on. It crawled out of its cave, gray like the granite mountain and at least forty feet long. One yellow eye narrowing on him, the dragon let out a screech that knocked d'Artagnan flat on his back. He lay there paralyzed. The dragon was large enough it could swallow him whole if it was hungry.

Which, if it had been hibernating through the winter, was a very strong possibility.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos's voice rang out.

The dragon's yellow eyes flicked from d'Artagnan to where Athos and Porthos were running out into the open, their acimite blades glinting black in the sun.

"Hey!" Porthos yelled. "Over here!"

The dragon's nostrils flared and it abandoned d'Artagnan in favor of lumbering over the rocks toward them. D'Artagnan hesitated only a fraction of a second before scrambling upright and cutting away the rest of the plant as quickly as he could. Once he'd harvested all of it, he turned and drew his borrowed obsidian blade to help the others.

Athos and Porthos were trying to dodge the gigantic dragon's bulk while keeping it occupied, a feat that was going to see one of them caught or trampled shortly. Athos darted around the dragon's left and slashed at its flank, only to nearly get sideswiped by its tail. Narrowly avoiding it sent him sprawling onto his back on the ground.

D'Artagnan rushed in and stabbed at the tail, only remembering at the last second that the sword could break. Thankfully, it didn't. The dragon whipped its head toward him with a shriek. But then the musketeers' dragons came swooping in with battle roars of their own. Savron attacked the massive beast head on, landing in front of it and rearing up to snap at its face. The gigantic dragon hissed and smacked a clawed foot at the smaller silverback, easily pinning him to the ground. Savron flailed in a futile effort to wriggle free.

All three men charged the dragon then, going for different locations. D'Artagnan ducked under the dragon's towering bulk and scored a gash across its belly. He didn't see where the others struck, but the dragon let out a bellowing screech that rattled d'Artagnan's eardrums.

Vrita flew by the dragon's head and unleashed a geyser of fire into its face. It reared back at that, freeing Savron who scrambled away.

"Retreat!" Athos yelled, running toward his dragon.

Vrita swooped down from the air to quickly land for Porthos to climb on.

D'Artagnan was closer to Savron and so bolted for the silverback. Athos leaped into the saddle first and held out a hand for d'Artagnan to grab, pulling him up behind him. There was no time to clip on their anchor lines before the dragons were launching back into flight. D'Artagnan lurched backward and nearly lost his one-armed grip on Athos, his other hand still holding his sword. Adjusting his arm and probably squeezing Athos's waist far more than was comfortable, d'Artagnan threw a glance over his shoulder. To his horror, the humongous dragon had snapped its massive wingspan taut and was beginning to thwack them in preparation to fly.

The dragon rose slowly, but its immense size made up for its lack of speed as it quickly started to gain on them. Fulvous cracks began to expand across its belly.

Athos twisted around and clipped one of the anchor lines to d'Artagnan's belt, since neither of his hands were free. "Hold on!"

He already was holding on, but if he thought riding a dragon had been terrifying the first time, nothing prepared him for the way Savron suddenly took a nosedive back toward the valley. D'Artagnan's stomach jumped into his throat and he almost dropped the special acimite sword. Only a white-knuckled grip kept the hilt in his hand as Savron careened toward the mountains on the eastern side of the range.

D'Artagnan waited for him to pull up, but he didn't. "Athos…"

Savron banked sharply, slipping right through a gap in the peaks. D'Artagnan clenched his legs as tightly as he could to stay in the saddle. Athos bowed low over the front and d'Artagnan followed suit, pressing himself against the musketeer's back as Savron flew tight maneuvers through the mountain pass.

D'Artagnan craned his neck to look behind again. Vrita and Porthos were on their tail, also twisting and angling sharply to navigate the craggy cliff sides. There was no way the larger dragon would be able to follow them, though if it was smart it could simply fly overhead and wait for them on the other side.

Thankfully, it either wasn't that smart, or didn't want to expend the effort, because they broke through into Switzerland without any sign of the monstrous dragon.

"You have the flower?" Athos asked as he straightened in the saddle.

D'Artagnan's heart skipped a beat and he let go of Athos's waist to slap a hand over his belt, terrified for a moment that the pouch might have dumped its contents in their mad escape. But the pouch flap was closed and when he lifted it, the green and white plant was still inside.

"Yes," he breathed, sagging in relief. He felt Athos lose some of his tension, only for it to be replaced as he waved at Porthos and turned his dragon back toward Paris.

"Savron, are you injured?" Athos asked, leaning over the dragon's neck again.

The silverback gave a short head shake. Nevertheless, Athos began twisting in the saddle to look over the dragon as best he could. D'Artagnan tried to lean out of the way while also giving his own perusal. But there were no wounds, and Savron didn't seem to be struggling to fly, so it was unlikely anything had been broken under that giant dragon's foot. Finally Athos seemed satisfied and settled in the saddle.

Now that their flight was stabilized, d'Artagnan took a moment to examine his acimite sword. It looked intact, though as he angled the blade a certain way, he noticed a striation in the alloy that didn't look congruent with the rest of the blade.

"Athos," he said, shifting the blade forward. "Is that normal?" He didn't quite want to admit that he'd damaged the blade on his first time using it.

Athos turned his head, taking a few moments to inspect it. "If you're referring to the crack, yes. I take it you got in a few blows to the dragon?"

D'Artagnan grimaced in embarrassment. "I stabbed the tail. I'm sorry. Porthos warned me the blades damaged easily. I should have saved the attack for a more vulnerable area."

"There were few vulnerable areas on that dragon," Athos replied dryly. "The sword is still functional. It takes deep penetration in the thicker areas of a dragon's hide to fully shatter it, which usually ends in a successful strike anyway, as the shards break off inside the wound."

Slightly mollified, d'Artagnan finally sheathed the blade and used his free hand to cover the pouch carrying their precious quarry.

They flew back at all speed. The dragons were pushing themselves, d'Artagnan could tell. Every few miles they'd start to lose altitude only to doggedly flap their wings to regain it. D'Artagnan could hear their labored breaths and feel Savron's muscles beginning to tremble beneath him. Yet still no one suggested they stop for a rest. D'Artagnan figured if the dragons decided to hell with it and landed, nothing would stop them.

But they didn't. They cared as much for their task as the musketeers did, and d'Artagnan was once again awed by this unusual family unit.

The dragons' determination cut down their return journey to six hours, and by the time they reached the garrison, Savron and Vrita collapsed in the middle of the yard rather than landing properly. D'Artagnan scrambled to unhook himself and get out of the saddle, anxious to alleviate some of the dragon's burden.

Savron was wheezing as his head lolled in the dirt, some froth bubbling around his mouth. Vrita was in much the same condition and Porthos was quickly undoing the saddle to pull it off her.

Musketeers came rushing over to help and someone shouted to get some water. Rhaego appeared, dancing anxiously between his den mates and mewling worriedly at them.

Athos snagged Etienne's arm. "Aramis?"

The soldier's expression was grim. "Hanging on. Did you find it?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan said, stepping forward and pulling the pouch from his belt.

"Then hurry."

While the other musketeers tended to the dragons, d'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos rushed to the infirmary. D'Artagnan was surprised to see Constance there, sitting by Aramis's bedside. She and Doctor Lemay looked up at their arrival, both of them leaping to their feet.

"Do you have it?" Constance asked urgently.

D'Artagnan drew out a fistful of the flower from the pouch.

"Bring it here," Lemay immediately said, moving toward the infirmary's work station.

D'Artagnan brought it over and set both the handful and pouch on the table. While the physician went to work plucking the white petals off and putting them in a mortar, d'Artagnan moved closer to Aramis where Athos and Porthos had already crowded around their ailing friend. Aramis was ashen and nearly still, save for the smallest twitches of pain signaling that he was still alive. D'Artagnan's breath stole from his lungs at the sight of red streaks branching out from underneath his shirt around his shoulder and across his collar bone, encroaching ever closer to his heart.

"This will work, right?" Constance said in a hushed voice.

D'Artagnan automatically moved closer and slipped an arm over her shoulders. "It has to."

Lemay hurried over with a cup of water. "He needs to drink this."

Athos immediately took the cup and sat on the edge of the bed. Slipping his other hand beneath Aramis's head, he tried to coax the man into taking the liquid.

Lemay returned to his work station and continued doing something. D'Artagnan's attention was fully focused on the bobbing of Aramis's throat as he swallowed the medicine.

The door opened and Treville strode in, expression as anxious as the rest of them.

Doctor Lemay came back over with a paste and sat on Aramis's other side, then unwound the bandage from his hand. The wound was black, and d'Artagnan felt a thrill of fear that the marksman might lose the limb. But Lemay mentioned nothing of that as he spread the paste on and then rewrapped it.

"That is all we can do," he announced.

D'Artagnan looked at Treville. "How long before it's supposed to work?"

"A few hours." But despite his experience claiming the plant was miraculous, there was still a taut fear in his eyes.

All that was left to do now was wait and pray.

.o.0.o.

Aramis's fever broke within two hours. The vicious red streaks began to fade soon after, and with them the twitches of pain until he seemed to be resting peacefully. Athos sat by his sickbed, unable to take his eyes away lest he find the cure had suddenly failed and the venom reasserted itself.

But it didn't. Athos reached over and lifted the patch of linen covering Aramis's hand. The puncture wound was still there but small and almost insignificant, the swelling and discoloration fully gone. Athos let himself breathe again and laid the cloth with the paste made from the crushed flower petals back in place. It seemed all the effects had been remedied, and now Aramis was just unconscious from the ordeal of it all.

D'Artagnan entered the infirmary carrying a tray of some food and drink. "Savron and Vrita are better," he announced. "Constance has been looking after them and says they'll be fine."

Athos felt another stitch of tension loosen from his chest, enough that he allowed himself to take part of the nourishment d'Artagnan had brought them.

They were still eating when Treville came in a few minutes later.

"How is he?" the captain immediately asked.

"Better," Athos replied. Lemay had left a while ago, confident—and amazed—at Aramis's recovery.

Treville nodded. "I've spoken with the King about this attack on one of his musketeers. He's outraged and wants the villain caught."

"Too bad we don' know who's behind it," Porthos groused.

"Have you thought of anyone with a grudge?" Treville asked Athos.

"I'm sure there are many, but no one with this kind of determination or conniving comes to mind."

"It was a woman who delivered the box," d'Artagnan spoke up.

There was only one woman who would have cause to want Athos dead, but she had gone to the grave before him.

"She might have just been a courier," he replied.

"You'll have to be diligent," Treville warned. "If this person is as determined as they seem to be, they will try again."

Athos nodded, gaze drifting back to Aramis as guilt compressed his chest. These attacks from the shadows were dishonorable and the actions of a coward, but Athos was more concerned for his brothers getting caught in the crossfire again than he was for himself. He would be on his guard for them as well.

Aramis's eyelids suddenly drifted open and Athos straightened in alertness. "Aramis?"

Aramis blinked languidly for a long moment before a wan smile tugged at his mouth. "You made it," he rasped.

Athos reached out and took his hand in a solid grasp, though Aramis was too weak to return it. Porthos scooted toward the head of the bed and laid a gentle hand in their brother's curls, while d'Artagnan completed the circle at the foot of the bed with a beaming smile.

"So did you," Athos replied warmly.

"I had…a lot…to live for."

Athos nodded, starkly reminded that so did he. And that would always be something worth defending.

.o.0.o.

Milady swept through the secret passage to the Cardinal's office in answer to the summons she'd received at one of her many message drop points. She paused at the false panel in the wall and listened to make sure there was no one else in the room before slipping inside.

The Cardinal looked up from his papers at her arrival. "And what have you been up to?" he asked without preamble.

"What I'm always up to—keeping my eyes and ears open for any information that you might find of interest."

"Is that all?" he replied, a flinty glint in his eyes. "Not also attempting to murder a musketeer?"

Milady faltered. Of course news of a musketeer's untimely demise would spread quickly, but she couldn't understand what Richelieu would take issue with regarding it. He despised the Musketeers.

"Someone tried to kill the musketeer Athos," the Cardinal went on. "But another musketeer was wounded instead. Almost died, in fact. But a group of musketeers made a heroic journey to the Jura to bring back a rare cure and he was saved."

Her jaw slackened in dismay at that and her left eye twitched. Aramis had survived. Athos had saved him. Her stupefaction flared into fury that all of her careful planning had been thwarted once again. How was this possible?

Richelieu stood from his chair and strode around the table toward her. "Who is this Athos to you?" he demanded.

"I was simply trying to rectify a previous failure," she answered quickly. "I thought you'd be pleased to be rid of even one of those musketeers."

He lashed a hand out so fast she couldn't even react as he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against the wall. Her eyes blew wide in surprise, a startled gasp struggling to escape past her lips as his fingers tightened around her neck.

"You are not to do anything without my leave," he seethed. "I want to dispose of the Musketeers, not make them martyrs. Do you understand?"

A strangled gurgle hiccoughed from her mouth and she nodded shakily. Richelieu stepped back, releasing her, and it took all of her composure not to throw a hand up at her bruised throat.

"I have a mission for you in England," the Cardinal said primly. "Perhaps some distance would be good for all of us."

Milady ducked her gaze in demure acquiescence, though inside she was livid. Athos would not escape what he deserved.

But her revenge would have to wait. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> Circumstances force Athos to return to his home in La Fère where he finds a neighboring baron has decided to use his absence as an excuse to terrorize the villagers.


End file.
